Forever Young

 "You are never too old to set another goal, or to dream a new dream."

                                          C.S. Lewis

There she sat crocheting a scarf, a rich burgandy ball of wool hung limply from one side. "That's really beautiful," I remarked almost instinctively, stopping  to admire her handiwork.

"You like it? I'm making them for the senior center, to be given away as Christmas presents," she sounded excited,  her mind beginning to loop around the festive patterns she could experiment with.

"May I?" I asked, pointing to the empty chair next to hers, a big mug of macha with coconut milk in my hand.

"You don't have to ask, " the gray haired lady smiled, peering over her glasses. 

" When did you learn to crochet?" The embarassed undertone was palpable in my voice. For god only knows how many times, how many peoples'  patience I had tried, in attempting to learn the fine art of crocheting, but with little success. 

"Now, would you believe it, I just learnt it three months ago! Joined the capital region's crochet club and  started from scratch", triumph rang clear from every pore of her being, as she admitted to her hidden genius. 

We sipped and chatted, in the hallowed space of Short and Stout, the new tea shop in our neighborhood, which along with serving an array of tea and snacks, also offered the local artists a forum to showcase their work. The walls flaunting a fine gradation of warm colours, held 25 of my artwork, in watercolors and acrylics. 

I was soon to learn that this vivacious lady radiating enthusiasm was a 65-year-old retired teacher, and had the most musical name: Corrine, with the rs rolled deliciously, the way it is in authentic French. "Do you know I have been to India once, to attend one of my students' wedding? It was a real experience. I even bought myself some gorgeous silk sarees." She paused deliberately, and then added, "But wrapping it around, now that's one thing I couldn't learn". I let out a sigh of relief, secretly glad that I had scored a point there.

Every Tuesdays, Corrine hosted a local book club at the tea shop. On Fridays, she took a cab to NYC, some 160 miles south of Albany to attend a weekly class on ikebana. And, thrice a week, she volunteered  at a downtown literary center. She was a busy retired teacher, considering that she was also helping a PhD student, pass a basic French test, a requisite towards acquiring the degree. 

"What do you do?" She asked me, as I looked up at the clock to see the time. "I am an artist." 

"What do you think of all these fine paintings on the walls? I specifically like the one with the rose...Perhaps, I am partial to it because my middle name is Rose..."

"Those are my artwork," I mumbled under my breath, while she burst into  guffaws of laughter. "Really my dear?"

"Yeah!"

Now, you might think I am telling stories. But, I have always admired people who could paint, especially in watercolour. A few years ago, I bought myself a whole set of paints, brushes, and watercolor paper, with the aim to indulge myself, or find someone to indulge me. But, I just never got down to it. You think you could give me some lessons?"

And thus a teacher became a dedicated student, arriving always on time, armed with her supplies. With an unparalleled combination of jazz in the background, and a steaming kettle of tea in the foreground, together we set out to tempt the Muse. 

I thought her eyes became a bit more sparkly every time she found her hands obeying instructions, learning different kinds of strokes to create small works of art she had only once dreamt of. And she laughed a little more heartily, when I praised her progress. "Do you really think I am getting the hang of it?" She would ask, thrilled by the realisation.

We painted, listened to music, discussed our favourite movies...and over many cuppas  we shared, Corrine poured me many a memorable stories...sweetened with her unyielding zest for life.